


Systema Naturae

by elektra121



Category: Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Genre: Butterflies, F/F, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra121/pseuds/elektra121
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla as a lepidopterist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Systema Naturae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PsychoPomposity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoPomposity/gifts).



> Many thanks to Fenway03, who helped with this in a nightly marathon! 
> 
> The "Mrs. Merian" mentioned in the text is **Maria Sybilla Merian** , a lepidopterist and explorer of the 17th and 18th century.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Sibylla_Merian  
> An example of her butterfly copperplates: http://www.restoredprints.com/MER012.jpg
> 
> For the non-lepidopterist reader, here are pictures of the respective butterflies that Carmilla refers to:  
>  **Small Heath:**  
>  http://www.aphotofauna.com/images/butterflies/butterfly_small_heath_coenonympha_pamphilus_00_04-07-04.jpg  
>  **Cabbage White:**  
>  http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/phpBB/gallery/images/upload/8ff895c298dcf356d76f5bf527b0feeb.jpg  
>  **Small Tortoiseshell:**  
>  http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/be/Small-Tortoiseshell-%289%29.JPG  
>  **Red Admiral:**  
>  http://www.carolinanature.com/butterflies/redadmiral8386.jpg  
>  **Brimstone Butterfly:**  
>  http://butterfly-conservation.org/files/brimstone-underwing-male1_matt-berry-web.jpg  
>  **Peacock Butterfly:**  
>  http://www.pentaxuser.co.uk/images/gallery/2010/01/normal/peacock-butterfly_1262620812.jpg  
>  **Swallowtail:**  
>  http://i1.treknature.com/photos/2258/borboleta.jpg  
>  **Cosmopolitan:**  
>  http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/40/ee/f7/40eef723b7a768aba04af87b10d5e6fa.jpg  
>  **Emperor's Mantle:**  
>  http://images4.fanpop.com/image/photos/16500000/An-attractive-Silver-washed-Fritillary-butterflies-16587113-1920-2560.jpg  
> http://www.zonacharrua.com/butterflies/paphia%20pair%20002a.jpg

_"Girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; (...) each with their peculiar propensities, necessities, and structure."_

 

Carmilla had read Mrs. Merian's book on the marvelous metamorphosis of the caterpillars, and it soon became her new bible, after she had forsaken the old one, the one written by men. It came as no surprise that it was a woman who had written it, nor that it had come out the same year in which she herself had been born. No, the more she thought about it, the more natural it seemed – for a book that was linked to her in so many aspects. 

Mama had given it to her, as a gift, because of the lovely colored copperplates, in which the author had captured the delicate short-lived flowers and butterflies in their moment of greatest beauty, thus preserving them forever. In Mama's opinion, she had done something quite similar with Carmilla. 

However, Mama never fully understood the reasons why Carmilla adored the book so much. For years, she had spent every free minute perusing its pages until she knew all of them by heart. And even when she didn't read its words or looked at its pictures, for long hours she thought about all the things that it contained. When she had read it for the first time, it felt like a new world opening up before her, as if only then someone had given to her the key to her strange existence. 

As a young girl, the authoress had found out – by means of mere observation – that the ugly caterpillars which ate away the leaves and blooms of the flowers did not mate and procreate like other animals. Instead, they fell into a death-like sleep, retreating into a narrow shell, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for a whole winter – until at last breaking open their cocoon, emerging from its constriction as wholly new beings, leaving their heavy earthbound existence behind and beginning a new life as beautiful butterflies. 

And wasn't it exactly what had happened to Carmilla herself? Only now she was able to understand the meaning of it all – she had lived a short and insignificant and earthbound life as a mortal girl, simple-minded and ignorant, feeding on cabbage and dead meat, just like a caterpillar. And then her metamorphosis had occurred: she had stopped eating and moving, had lain for long days immobile in a coffin that was dark and narrow – yet not dying but instead being changed and then rising as a nobler, better being. And just like the butterflies that now could fly freely beneath the sky, she, too, had been freed from the chains of the ordinary and the well-known, freed from the laws of moral and the straight laces of decency. Now she was allowed to follow her true nature, and to feed on nothing but the sweet essence that filled the most beautiful creatures – just like butterflies did with the nectar of splendiferous flowers. 

And all of this was nothing but an act of Nature, unaffected by gods or demons or curses. As with dreams, there was nothing magical to it, however marvelous it seemed – it was simply natural. All things proceeded from Nature. All things in the heaven, in the earth, and under the earth acted and lived as Nature ordained. There was such sweet comfort and triumph to that knowledge. And only when she had read and understood this could Carmilla strip off her pupae of guilt and fear and grief – and fully be herself, and become the butterfly that she was meant to be. 

The book was a true revelation – even though Carmilla never knew for sure whether Mrs. Merian herself had been aware of her function as a prophetess in writing and painting all of these things. She would have loved to ask her, and for months she kept bugging Mama and Matzka about a journey to Nuremberg, to be able to speak with her. Yet, when her wish was finally granted and they arrived there, Carmilla learned that Mrs. Merian had moved to Amsterdam. And once they followed her there, she was soon informed that Mrs. Merian was on an expedition to the province of Surinam, a land far away that Carmilla had never even heard of before. And to travel yet again, overseas, to an uncivilized, hot, and humid region thousands of miles away, only to debate the nature of butterflies – well, Mama’s refusal was plain, and her appreciation for Carmilla's lepidopteric interests had worn thin. In Mama's opinion, she should rather concentrate on learning something useful instead of entertaining futile hobby-horses. And so, instead of following Carmilla's butterfly whims to South America, they settled down for several years in Paris, where Mama and Matzka taught her how to woo and prey and hide, and so many other things. The next time she heard about the authoress of the caterpillar book, it was years after Mrs. Merian had died. 

Of course, this did not lessen Carmilla's interest in researching nature. Quite the contrary. She felt obligated to follow in Maria Sibylla Merian's footsteps and to find out about the acts of nature by means of observation by herself now, exactly as her idol had done in the past. And Carmilla was an attentive, patient observer – even more so because her patience did not have to yield to the pressure of time. 

After a while, the book revealed a third layer of meaning. Not only Carmilla had woken from her caterpillar existence to a butterfly life – in less spectacular form, other girls went through a similar metamorphosis as well. First, they were dumb, bothersome children, all looking more or less the same and crawling about on the ground, playing repetitive and never-ending games, and gorging down every food available. A few years later, however, they entered a stage of melancholy and vulnerability, retreating for some time in their own special ways. In the seclusion of their chambers, they grew soft curves – becoming uglier at first but then more beautiful. And when they finally danced on their first ball, they had transformed into pretty, delicate butterflies, fluttering about, longing for adventure and freedom. 

And just like the different species of butterflies depicted so artfully in the caterpillar book, all those girls had their own distinct propensities, necessities, and appearances. Carmilla had observed them for so long and had studied them in so much detail that, eventually, she could have written a book herself, about girls, if she had wished to share her knowledge. 

There were diurnal butterflies and night moths, some of them peppered with grey, some of them blazing with bright colors, demure Small Heaths and imposing Swallowtails. And Carmilla knew them all. She was able to identify a girl’s respective species in an instant – and to determine how to win her friendship. Even Mama praised her for what she called Carmilla’s “artistry”, though there was no art to it at all. It was simple science. 

Most common, and most bland, were the Cabbage Whites. Pale and dull in every regard, there was nothing noteworthy to them. Cabbage Whites believed themselves to be very extravagant if they wore a beauty patch – yet they stayed common through and through. They had neither beauty nor wit nor style. And they were very easy catches – some flattering words, some fluttering eyes, and they were done. But it was hardly worth even such small effort: Cabbage Whites simply did not taste fine. The only excuse to drink from such low beings would be extreme hunger or inexperience. Mama and Matzka had tolerated two or three Whites as her prey when Carmilla had still been learning – but now she would have been ashamed to sink so low. 

She had noticed, though, that Cabbage Whites were sure guides to nobler butterflies. Given their own ordinary nature, they tended to gather around more prized specimens, to leech off their glamour. She only had to follow some of those fair-game Cabbage Whites, and sooner or later, they would guide her unerringly to an Emperor. It was too easy, really. 

Even moths weren’t as dull; painfully aware of their own ugliness and not daring to hide it – sad little creatures in ragged clothes. And sometimes, in rare moments of pity, Carmilla would release them from their gray existence.

Small Tortoiseshells were much more pleasant and interesting study subjects. Sure enough, they were common, too, yet much prettier than Cabbage Whites and moths. Carmilla was never so unfair as to disregard their sweet unconfident fluttering or carroty color. They were lovely in their own way, the despised and disprized, the red-haired, the left-handed, the misbegotten ones – all of them so charmingly shy, doubting that anyone would find them worthy of kindness. Carmilla considered Tortoiseshells an underestimated species – their ability to muster such pretty colors and markings despite being forced to live on stinging nettles had clearly earned her respect. And they were tough enough to survive whole winters, with hinged wings. As a scientist, Carmilla held Tortoiseshells in high regard. She indulged in their unexploited and fresh laughter, in their adorable stuttering when she drew near to them, and, of course, in the timorous fluttering of their heartbeats under her hand, in the moment when she caught them. But, admittedly, that was common to all butterflies. 

Sometimes, just for sport, Carmilla drank from Tortoiseshells and then convinced Mama and Matzka that it had been Peacock butterflies. They never tasted the difference. 

A much stronger challenge compared to Small Tortoiseshells was posed by Red Admirals. To Carmilla, they sometimes seemed to be the most challenging of them all. Though they weren't as rare as other butterflies, it was quite difficult to catch them. Admirals were intellectual and demure, immune to gossip and flattering words – it was by no means a coincidence that they dressed in dark fabrics, only contrasted with collars and sleeve hemlines of flawless white. Even their hair would be up, neatly parted and plaited, tightly pinned with bodkins. But that simply intensified the allure of their red lips. One had to be clever to catch an Admiral – trapping them required a lot of patience and maneuvering. One had to bide one’s time until they felt at ease – but that did not mean agreeing with them on every term. Such behavior bored them. Repeatedly, Admirals had managed to slip away right under Carmilla’s fingertips, which made it an even greater satisfaction whenever she finally caught one of those prized exemplars. 

Initially, she always pretended not to be interested in them but solely in some abstract topic that they had brought up. One really had to be well versed to gain their attention, at least in the beginning – that was the difficult part. After that, she would let the Admirals lead. Admirals loved long conversations on academic topics, whether art or history or natural philosophy. Often, they would talk about religion and theology, too, especially if they were Protestants or Jewesses. Carmilla found it a tiresome habit but one that she had to bear in order not to attract any attention. After a while, she would withdraw and leave the Admirals alone, and when they came fluttering back to her, she knew she had won their trust. And then, slowly and deliberately, little by little, she could guide their conversations towards certain subjects – but still with subtlety, for Admirals were quite suspicious. But that only made it so much more thrilling. And how wonderful it felt once they were finally in her hands! Carmilla loved loosening the Admirals' tight braiding, watching their lips and cheeks reddening, and discovering the creamy skin hidden beneath their black dresses. Despite all the trouble they caused, Admirals were most certainly worth all the effort they required. 

One time, Carmilla even met an Admiral who was familiar with the study of actual butterflies herself. Their conversations were pleasant to say the least, and when she finally kissed the warm life out of her, Carmilla almost believed that the girl understood. 

Nevertheless, Peacock butterflies were the ones that came most natural to her. Peacocks were ravishingly beautiful, a sight so much more appealing than the mere prettiness of Small Tortoiseshells and Brimstone butterflies. They knew very well which dresses and pieces of jewelry would present them best, but even in plain nightgowns and with rumpled hair, they were radiant princesses. Carmilla recognized them by the sparkle in their eyes, by the way of their smiles, by the effortless elegance of their movements, and she never tired of watching them. Peacocks could be ensnared with relative ease as long as one acted just like they did – a small smile here, a flirtatious wink there, an amusing conversation interspersed with a little flattery. And after a night of dancing, a small trinket for a gift would do the trick. Or a secret letter. Or a kiss. Peacocks were simply a pleasure to have as one’s company. And sometimes, with their pretty colors and lovely fluttering, they made even Carmilla forget everything else in the world.  
Unfortunately, Carmilla wasn't the only one with a taste for Peacock butterflies. That was the big downside. It was nearly impossible to have a Peacock all to oneself – they were always surrounded by Cabbage Whites and all sorts of moths. And sometimes, other collectors had to be warded off as well. Yet, after a while, Carmilla had acquired a certain sense for the right moment to steal away a Peacock butterfly. And then she could enjoy her all by herself – at least on those occasions when Mama did not demand to share her prize.  
Bertha had been a Peacock.

Mama was a Swallowtail – more amazing, more glamorous, and more beautiful than all the other butterflies. Formidable. Awe-inspiring. Beyond comparison. Swallowtails were very rare and special, and aside from Mama herself, Carmilla had seen only very few exemplars of this elusive species that would not fall for any of her strategies. She wouldn't have dared to approach them voluntarily, and it was in Mama's discretion to decide how to proceed.  
Carmilla was sure that Mama believed her to be a Swallowtail as well, and for a long time, she herself would have agreed. But when she met Laura again – grown-up Laura –, she knew better.

Two or three decades ago, Carmilla went to Wiesbaden to see the remainders of Maria Sybilla Merian's collection. The butterflies were splendiferous and had been prepared so carefully that, even after 100 years, they looked as if they could fly away at any minute if only someone removed those needles and freed them from their vitreous coffins. And yet, Carmilla felt that she herself had become the greater scientist and the more accomplished collector. In contrast to Mrs. Merian, she did not need to exhibit any corpses. And she would never let go of the best item in her collection.

An Emperor's Mantle. Yes, Laura was an Emperor's Mantle. Of course, she was not yet aware of it. But she was loved and cherished, so she couldn't be a Tortoiseshell. And she was neither as intellectual nor as beautiful as a Red Admiral or a Peacock butterfly. And quite certainly, she was no Swallowtail either. At first glance, she looked like a common Cosmopolitan – not arousing much interest and surely not attracting Carmilla's immediate attention. But as soon as the portrait of Mircalla von Karnstein hung in Laura's bedroom, any doubt vanished into thin air. Laura was special. She was a magnificent Emperor's Mantle. And Carmilla was one, too.  
They were destined to be together, and nothing would ever tear them apart again – whether it would find Laura’s approval or not. Just like two Emperor's Mantle butterflies remained connected after their mating, Carmilla and Laura would become one.  
For better or worse. 

Inseparable forever.


End file.
